AN UNSOLVED EXERCISE IN MAT-EERY and alia
By Francesca Stefanelli
Astrologer came to me
in a Moxygen dream
I asked for acupuncture of my tongue
“I don’t wanna forclude anymore”
but it just gave me cloud of judgment
in a simple truth:
“you’re not metal, fire, water, earth, air
‘cause
you are made of wood”
Wood, man! the less pleasant
less mystical of all
me, wood, a wooden maiden, human, humaid? At least were I
the Iron maiden
I would have power: on myself
to punctuate my discourse in self-discipline
and on the Other:
to sting, but I just can sing
when someone blows in me
other’s tongue tunes
other’s thought showroom
other’s blood cocoon
the actic of lymphs
the hammer the spynx are made of – not the art(s)
the only agency that falls apart
the bitch of every element
the slave of every sediment
neither can be the mistress of myself
if I expand too much I break my shell
my shell becomes the self of something else
be ingurgitated: my only counter-spell
wood, wood! Me, why, could
how I could
here’s how I could,
that’s why I feel every thingy moment upon me:
you burn me– and I scream
you flow me – and I sleak
you wind me – I fly
you bow me – I ride
‘cause I’m a fool I’m a tool I’m the dog who follows fool
you fog me – I just disappear
the most conceivable
on the line hill
you jow blob me – I turn into tears
the most apocryphal
on the line squirt
down on your throat
“this incense is all frantichoke”
“this wine really tastes like
molded oak!”
you scold me – I turn into mold
you hold me – I give you my gold
I thought I was everything’s heart
the truth: I’m in everything’s arm
disarmed
strangled, dis
assembled
an assembly of concrete
a victim of “sametimeness”
a glotted of the swallow
a passive of the clause
aggressive on the surface
goddess xylella[1] scarface
Wood you mind? that’s what I used to say
inviting all my strings under my shadows
fingertips I thought I could trace
now I just fell out from grace
acupunk-truth stole the acme
I’m in the flow- ers garden like a Lakme
lacking any tool to process that I am
a mere
vessel of sound
can’t react: I’m no fir/air
can’t dis-solve it: I’m no wat/earth
I’m no gold so can’t buy the flowers myself,
Virgo Aurea I’m so sorry but
it would mean I’m buying myself:
a wood buying its flowers, it’s capitalist nightmare
for buying implies selling
and if you sell yourself you’re
burying yourself
btw
funny: I’m the house of the livings and the home of the dead
I am burying material and mourning itself
but then who builds my grave? that’s up to other Elements
If there’d be a word for this it would be: elemNets
all plotting muzzmurring to end my Hysteria
so hurtful, so despised, the so called “Materia”
I’m grieving: can you guess?
the eternal engraved
that can’t engrave anyone else
pointy by fire and metal and sun
myself alone cannot take the long run
guess how Raimond Carver would feel if you told him
his true name is Carved, his writings don’t belong him
you never carved anything, bro
you have just been carved by Thoughts, you’re silent like a mole
but maybe that’s the core of all my mourning
but maybe there’s an issue in belonging
what if water is suffering themselves
the waterness of borders of the selves?
the elemntes sbroader and reach and verbroders
the elemnets open careall and disworder
recall, wreck all
an utter of poison can end
us
all
a gut that is poisoned can
kill
it
all
the bodies, o bodies
the bodies o bodies
o bog, ode, o dies it
who does it? who takes it?
what takes it? who bids it?
is it me?
the buds are set on me?
and if I forbud if I forbid is also thanks to
Thee?
my element siblings
my cell companions, we alltaking orders
from Vertical Order
but if exists a eery verticalmness
also exists a vertigorizontix
smash them, mix them, let us loose our strings
so we can face our only way to be
“same
time
ness”
od
no
vre
me
nest,
sssss
aim
(vic)time
Net?
your faithful, your breathing, yours truly
Lin Net
[1] deadly illness of Olive trees